


Sugar Pie, Honeybunch

by VergofTowels



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Chubby!John, Fluff, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergofTowels/pseuds/VergofTowels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's a bit self-conscious about his weight; Dave just wants him to get naked.</p><p>Short fill for an anon who wanted more chubby!John ficcage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar Pie, Honeybunch

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize to anyone who may know me in person that I am once again breaking into a fandom with porn. :|

“John.”

 _“Dave.”_ His voice is amused but bordering on exasperated now. Not really surprising, since this is like the thirtieth time you’ve called for him. What are you supposed to do, though? You’ve been lying here on the bed, all spread out like one of your French girls, for fifteen minutes. You can’t even see him in the visible sliver of bathroom mirror – he must be behind the door or something.

“Are you done brushing your teeth or whatever, because you can paint your nails later. I don’t mind if you fuck me with bare nails, even though it’s hella attractive when you blingee them out with that glitter shit you got from Vriska.”

“Come _on,_ Dave, stop,” he laughs, finally coming back into the bedroom. He’s still wearing his boxers and a blue Doctor Who T-shirt you bought him a few months ago. “You’re an abomination; you _know_ the glitter polish doesn’t go with my eyes.”

“My bad,” you say, sitting up and beckoning him over. “Put Dave Strider down as the next fashion disaster. I will be disparaged in magazines the globe over. Joan Rivers will personally put out a hit on my ass. My glorious, attention-starved ass.”

“Mm-hm.” He lets you wrap your fingers in his shirt and pull him onto the bed. You slide back up to lean against the headboard and he settles across you lap. You like him there. “Let me know if I get heavy,” he says. He always says that.

“Will do,” you say, though you never have. Truthfully, you really enjoy the pressure of his butt and thighs. You let your fingers slip down to right where they meet and squeeze as you start kissing him. It would be better if he wasn’t wearing boxers, but you still feel a thrill as his leg yields softly under your touch. His lips yield, too, and your tongue fits into his mouth like it belongs there.

You kiss for a few minutes until both of you are breathless, but neither of you really wants to settle for making out tonight. He leans back a bit, smiling his goofy smile at you, and reaches up to slide your glasses from the bridge of your nose. You reach over and turn the bedside lamp off, then give him the tiniest smirk of a go-ahead. He folds them carefully before setting them down. You are now literally and figuratively naked, though you couldn’t give a shit about the tired cliché. You’re much more interested in the physical.

“Your turn,” you say, pushing up the hem of his shirt. He laughs a little, but then you feel the touch of his fingers at your wrist. You frown. “Dude, no. You _know_ you don’t need to do this.”

He shrugs, smile shrinking to a self-conscious bitten lip. “It doesn’t bother me to leave it on,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, maybe, but it bothers _me.”_ You shake off his hands and pull his shirt off over his head. He’s blushing when you can see his face again. It looks great against his olive skin, but you’d much rather he be turning red from something you’d done, not from his own misplaced nerves. “You know I love you.”

“Yes…” He knows what you’re going to say.

“I fucking love _all_ of you. So there.” He rolls his eyes, but the smile’s coming back. You let yourself match it, then move your grip up to his hips. Like his thighs, they’re soft; you can get a good handful if you want to. You do, to his protests. He stops when you start kissing his collarbone, nipping a bit, making him yours. He shifts against you, rubbing your burgeoning erections together.

He’s never cared much about his weight in the daytime, as far as you can tell. He runs and jumps and climbs trees with you and the girls without giving a fuck if there’s a little jiggle here and there. And it’s not like he isn’t _strong;_ his arms are all muscle. You’ve seen him lift a hammer as big as you are. He can hoist Jade above his head. He doesn’t need to feel inferior just because he’s a bit chubby. Besides, at six feet tall, he can get away with being a big guy.

In the bedroom, though, you get the feeling he’s comparing himself to you. You wish he’d stop that shit, because you’re not exactly the poster child for a healthy physique either. You’re skinny, sure, all ropey limbs and tight abs, but you don’t think it looks particularly _good._ You look like a wolf, tough but half-starved. You look like your bro did before he died; no-nonsense, fighting-fit, but scarred and sharp and kind of mean. You prefer John’s curves. At least it shows he grew up in a normal house.

You guess together you make a pretty good pair.

“Pants off,” you demand, and you tip him backward off you to lie on the bedspread. He makes an indignant noise but is already squirming out of his boxers when you switch it up and straddle his knees. You lean down to kiss his stomach tenderly.

“You’re so weird,” he sighs, burying one hand in your hair and tugging. He loves to mess up your hair, make it stand out in a pale corona. That jerk.

“I would have thought you’d’ve cottoned on to that by now,” you mutter, trailing kisses lower. “I mean, what with the albinism and the webcomic and the dead stuff.”

“Ew, _Dave.”_ He gives your hair a swift tug. “The dead stuff is such a turn-off. Don’t talk about the dead stuff.” 

You smirk into the dark curl of hair by his shaft. “Sure thing, honeybunch.” The scent of him fills you and then you take him in and taste it, too. He arcs up under your ministrations and you reduce him to a quivering mess.

\---

Later, after you’ve ridden him to both your hearts’ content, you let him pull you close and rest his chin against your bony shoulder. His breath ghosts across your cheek and you sleepily reach back to take his hand. “Don’t ever change,” you tell him. 

“I’ll do my best,” he chuckles, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll take this junk in my trunk to the grave.”

That startles a laugh out of you and you turn around to kiss him soundly. “See that you do. I’ll be right there with you to make sure.” And you mean it.


End file.
